Cocoa
by Fiorenza-a
Summary: Things had gone just about as badly as they could and Napoleon was beginning to worry about Illya.
1. Chapter 1

Things had gone just about as badly as they could.

Granted Illya had made a very neat job of blowing the bridge of the trawler. Granted ending up in the drink was not unforeseen.

But the water had been freezing and they were further out than they had intended, the swim back was an agonising fight in the pitch black against numbing cold. When they had finally beached themselves on the grit sharp sand they were exhausted.

Neither of them had remained conscious for long and when they awoke they were in a tile lined white cell. It didn't take much imagination to guess who had picked them up. Their jailers had not yet made themselves known, but someone would turn up sooner or later to gloat, someone always did.

Napoleon was sitting on the floor of the cell, his back against the wall. He had been sitting there for a while and he was beginning to worry about Illya. Illya was sitting on the far side of the cell, hunched up and shivering. They had both been cold when they had first come round, but Napoleon had recovered as his clothes dried out. Illya seemed to be having a tougher time warming up.

''You alright?'' asked Napoleon.

''Fine'' chattered the Russian with a faintly amused smile, as if his predicament somehow tickled him.

Napoleon picked himself up from the floor of the cell and hauled the Russian to his feet. ''You don't look fine'' he said, rubbing Illya's arms vigorously, trying to chivvy some warmth back into them.

''I'll be fine in a minute'' Illya protested through rattling teeth. Napoleon pulled Illya against him, rubbing his back, trying to share some of his own body heat with his freezing partner. Illya was so cold, no part of him had any warmth.

''You need to keep moving, get the circulation going'' said Napoleon.

Illya didn't seem overly impressed with this idea ''It may have escaped your attention'' he rattled out ''but we're a bit short of space for track and field.''

Napoleon's mind grasped at straws ''Press ups'' he said ''maybe try some press ups?''

Illya looked at him for a long moment, considering his options. Then reluctantly relinquishing the warmth, he pulled away and settled himself on the floor with a graceless awkwardness. His limbs beginning to seize up on him. He rolled over to take his bodyweight on his arms, but they just gave way beneath him. He remained on his stomach for a moment as if unable to comprehend the problem, then he rolled back and made a clumsy attempt to sit up ''I don't seem to be able to'' he said, bemused.

Napoleon was really starting to worry now. ''We have to get you warmed up'' he said, moving to the front wall of their prison. It was composed entirely of bars with a door let into it, painted white like the tiles, as was the cell opposite and, from what little Napoleon could see, so was the cell next to that, and the cell next to that, repeating on down the line on both sides. ''Hey'' he shouted into the echoing emptiness ''anybody there?''

''Napoleon don't'' said Illya ''I'll be fine.''

Illya's teeth had stopped chattering. Napoleon turned back to look at him, still in a heap on the floor, apparently lacking the will or the strength to get up. He had stopped shivering and was instead turning a disquieting shade of grey-blue.

''Come here'' ordered Napoleon, moving from the bars and pulling Illya up once again. He manhandled him to the back of the cell. A raised and tiled platform ran the length of the back wall, obviously intended as a bed. It had no bedding, but neither was it the floor.

Napoleon worked himself into a corner and tugged and pulled at Illya until he was leaning back against him. The Russian had put up a token protest but hadn't had the strength for anything more. Napoleon wrapped himself around Illya trying to get as much heat into the ice cold body as he could. ''Better?'' he asked.

''Better'' conceded Illya.

''Good'' said Napoleon ''You just hang on in there OK?''

''I will be fine'' repeated Illya.

''Illya, these tiles have a better colour than you do right now'' chided Napoleon.

''I am fine'' insisted Illya ''what we need is a way out of here.''

''Well they've left me with nothing useful'' said Napoleon ''how about you?''

''Unfortunately I have nothing either'' replied Illya ruefully.

''Well that leaves the guards'' sighed Napoleon ''at some point they have to open that door and when they do, we jump them.''

''Brilliant'' sneered Illya despondently.

''Do you have anything better?'' asked Napoleon.

''No'' admitted Illya, defeated ''but I will give it some consideration.''

''You do that'' said Napoleon ''let me know what you come up with.''

''You shall be the first to know'' responded Illya with mock formality.

Napoleon hefted Illya's weight companionably in his arms ''Are we feeling any warmer?'' he asked.

The Russian pondered this for a moment. ''I'm not any colder'' he said, after due consideration.

''Well I suppose that's something'' said Napoleon, unconvinced.

''Just tired'' added Illya casually.

That set all kind of alarm bells ringing in Napoleon. He shook the Russian firmly and instructed ''No, you don't. You hear me Illya, you are not to go to sleep.''

''OK. Alright, Napoleon'' acknowledged Illya peevishly, shifting about irritably in his arms. Napoleon was glad of the fight in him, giving in was a prelude to giving up, but he knew he needed to keep the Russian talking.

''Tell me what you want to do when we get out of here'' he prompted.

''I don't know'' said Illya, still irritable ''I'm still thinking about how we get out of here.''

''Come up with anything?'' asked Napoleon.

''Not yet'' admitted Illya.

''OK then, when we do get out of here, what's the first thing you want to do?'' Napoleon repeated.

''Napoleon, it is pointless to discuss what we will do when we get out of here until we have actually found a way to get out of here and for that I need some peace to think'' Illya protested caustically.

Napoleon knitted his brows. While it was true that Illya's capacity for being irritated was all but inexhaustible, he was worried that the continued peevishness could be signposting a deterioration. However, on the up side, he had to admit the irritation was keeping the Russian awake and talking, so he persisted. ''Humour me, I'm curious, what do you want to do?''

''I intend to recheck the existing regulations with regard to shooting one's partner'' said Illya darkly.

Napoleon stifled a smirk, there were obviously some parts of Illya that were frost proof. ''I'm fairly convinced the standing instructions are against it'' he replied, grinning.

''I shall lobby for their immediate revocation'' responded Illya, stubbornly sullen.

''And I shall recommend against it'' said Napoleon still smiling and then ''C'mon Illya, you must want to do something when you get out of here. You want to get warm don't you? Say a nice long hot soak in the tub?''

''I admit that does have a certain appeal'' relented Illya.

''See?'' prompted Napoleon ''anything else?''

''OK, if we're playing that game'' sighed Illya in resignation ''a fire, a nice warm fire in the grate, something to take the chill out of your bones. Just watching the flames and being warm, I wouldn't say no to that just now.''

Napoleon wrapped himself a little tighter round Illya, the Russian had sounded like he really needed that fire. ''Sounds good, got anything else?'' he asked.

Illya's head suddenly dropped back against his shoulder and was instantly pulled away. It was obviously starting to cost him to hold it upright. Napoleon brought a hand up to his forehead. Illya shook it away impatiently. ''I'm alright'' he insisted grumpily.

''You have a temperature'' Napoleon informed him.

''We all have a temperature'' retorted Illya acidly.

''Yours is up'' said Napoleon unruffled.

''I'm alright'' reasserted Illya ''I'm just tired.''

''I know you are'' said Napoleon ''but you can't go to sleep.''

''OK. I won't sleep, but I'm still tired'' Illya responded a little incoherently. The Russian was still unnervingly cold. The beginnings of his fever didn't seem to be doing anything to change that.

''Tell me what else you'd like'' encouraged Napoleon softly.

''Vodka, I could do with some vodka. Or Cocoa, yes a nice hot Cocoa with maybe some vodka in it'' mumbled Illya none too clearly.

''Some what?'' queried Napoleon, leaning in a little to catch Illya's answer.

''Some what, what?'' repeated Illya confused.

''What were you talking about?'' Napoleon prompted gently.

''What was I talking?'' mumbled Illya ''I can't remember. Please Napoleon let me sleep now. I'm so tired, let me sleep. I just need to be able to sleep.''

''No, no sleeping Illya, you need to stay awake'' Napoleon instructed the dopey Russian.

''OK, no sleeping'' acquiesced Illya sleepily, his head falling back against Napoleon's shoulder, the continuing strength to hold it upright gone.

''Illya?'' tested Napoleon, shaking him.

''Yes Napoleon what is it?'' breathed Illya, starting to drift.

Napoleon shook him again. ''Stay with me'' he ordered firmly. Illya didn't respond. Napoleon shook him harder ''Illya'' he reprimanded.

''What? What is it? Please Napoleon, leave me alone. I'm so tired. Please let me sleep'' the sleepy Russian begged.

Napoleon felt a chill of his own grip him and he pulled Illya in tighter, willing a little of his own strength to transfer to his frighteningly cold partner. ''You can't sleep, you were coming up with a plan'' he reminded gently, bringing up a hand to stroke Illya's hair from his eyes.

''Plan?'' echoed Illya.

''Yes, what's the plan, how do we get out of here?'' Napoleon repeated.

''Plan? Plan...I suppose we could...we could...'' Illya dutifully struggled, using the last of his strength to fight the fog in his brain, then Napoleon felt him sag as the last of his reserves were exhausted and the fight went out of him. ''Napoleon, I can't. I can't think. I need to sleep. Please Napoleon. Please let me sleep. I can't think anymore'' he pleaded, drifting away.

Napoleon tried shaking him again. ''Illya'' he insisted ''Illya'' trying to rouse the unconscious Russian, but the unconscious Russian wouldn't be roused. Napoleon extricated himself from under his partner's weight, laying Illya down on the cold tiling of the platform. He began rubbing Illya's arms and legs, roughing him up in the hope of warming him enough to surface.

After nearly ten minutes the exercise was pointlessly warming Napoleon, but Illya had begun to shiver once more. Napoleon reached for his forehead, his temperature was starting to climb. ''Illya, don't do this'' he muttered half to himself, half to the uncooperative Russian. He climbed back behind Illya, grabbing him up in his arms, wrapping himself round him, willing the heat to transfer to the impossibly cold body of his partner.

Slowly Napoleon felt Illya warm a little, he stirred slightly and opened his eyes. ''Illya?'' Napoleon tried, hoping to capture and keep his attention.

''Napoleon?'' queried Illya, barely above a whisper.

''Yes it's me, I'm here'' said Napoleon ''think you can stay with me now?''

''I'll try'' said Illya without conviction ''where are we?''

Napoleon tried Illya's forehead again, his hair was becoming damp and he was burning with fever, but he was still chilled to the bone. ''THRUSH; we're in a cell'' Napoleon replied.

''Oh'' said Illya disinterestedly ''when are we leaving?''

''As soon as we can'' said Napoleon, wishing with everything he had that it was true.

''Good'' said Illya ''because I don't feel so great.''

''I know'' said Napoleon gently ''you have a fever.''

''I don't think so'' responded the confused Russian ''I'm too cold.''

''I know you are, but I need you to hang on for me, do you think you can do that?'' asked Napoleon. He struggled to shrug himself out of his jacket and wrap it round Illya.

''I'm not sure'' mumbled Illya ''I'm so cold. I just want to sleep.''

''Just try for me Illya'' Napoleon pleaded softly, he could almost feel the Russian slipping away from him.

''I just want to sleep'' repeated Illya incoherently, closing his eyes. Napoleon tried shaking him again but there was no getting him back this time.

Napoleon held onto his partner for a long time, grateful for each breath he took. Illya didn't stir again. Napoleon let his own head fall back against the cold white tiles behind him and closed his eyes, trying to think of some way to get them out, to get Illya out, to persuade whatever twisted mind was holding them that there was an advantage to Illya's continued existence. Eventually he fell asleep himself.

He woke hours later, relieved to find Illya still breathing, icy cold and wrapped in his jacket. He shifted his weight a little under the motionless Russian, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. Then he pulled Illya tight back against him, trying to warm the pitiless chill from the terrifyingly cold body.

Illya stirred and opened unfocussed eyes. ''Napoleon?'' he asked.

''Yes'' said Napoleon tenderly ''I'm here. How are you feeling?''

''I'm sorry'' Illya murmured in reply and then his eyes glazed and closed for a final time.

Something reached in and grabbed Napoleon's stomach, twisting it into an almost unbearable knot as he realised that the Russian had just said goodbye. Napoleon dropped his head to rest against his partner's, whispering uselessly into the damp blonde hair ''Not like this Illya, not like this.''

But the Russian wasn't listening, his breathing was slowing even as his temperature was rising. He was soaked in cold sweat and Napoleon held him, no longer caring what THRUSH wanted or didn't want or whether they turned up at all.

Time seemed to stand still, everything collapsing in on the faltering sound of Illya's increasingly laboured breathing. Napoleon's senses seemed to drift. The endless white numbing them. Numbing him until he was lost, drifting on a sea of white, unable to distinguish reality from dreaming. The only thing that was real, the only thing that mattered, was the weight in his arms and the sound of another man's breathing. He closed his eyes listening to each breath, silently pleading for the next, living only from inhale to exhale. Mesmerised by the declining rhythm until reality left him altogether.


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon awoke on crisp sheets under bright white lights. He raised an arm against the hostile illumination, shielding his tender eyes. He felt numb and empty but couldn't place the cause. It just felt as if everything that mattered had been taken away. He blinked dumbly waiting for some part of him to tell him what to do next.

''Mr Solo?'' asked a voice and he turned to see who was speaking. It was a nurse. He blinked at her, wondering what she wanted and not really caring what the answer was. ''How are you feeling?'' she asked and then he remembered. He was no longer holding Illya. He should have been holding Illya.

He rolled away from her, not wanting an answer for why he wasn't holding Illya. Not wanting to ask the question.

She seemed to hesitate at his side and then disappeared back to wherever she had come from. He briefly wondered if she had been THRUSH. Not that it mattered. Not that he cared.

He shut his eyes hoping sleep would find him again, but it stubbornly refused his invitation. His ears filled with the sound of remembered breathing and he listened to the rhythm of it, heedless of time or environment. His eyes still shut.

Eventually something touched his shoulder. A stick? Who was prodding him with a stick? It distracted his self hypnosis sufficiently for him to pick up the smell of tobacco. Not a cigarette, something more mellow, rounder. ''Mr Solo'' said a voice and something in him remembered that he shouldn't ignore this voice. He opened his eyes and rolled onto his back.

''Sir?'' he acknowledged, his stomach tensing as if in expectation of a punch. Without realising it, he held his breath.

''Mr Solo the medical staff are concerned enough to have requested my presence'' said the voice ''they seem to think you are not giving them your full attention.'' The voice put the pipe back in his mouth, clamping it between his teeth, allowing a curl of aromatic smoke to escape the bowl and drift towards the ceiling.

''Sir?'' repeated Napoleon, suddenly aware of how tense he was. He made a conscious effort to relax, but as soon as he stopped concentrating his body reverted.

''May I sit?'' asked the voice.

Napoleon registered the chair by his bed for the first time. Of course there was a chair, where else would Illya sit? Where was Illya? Perhaps the voice had asked him to leave. Yes the voice had the authority to do that. Illya wouldn't take it from anyone else, but he would obey the voice. That must be it. He wanted to ask where Illya was but something in him told him that this was the one question he couldn't ask. He listened to the something. It was the same something that spoke to him when THRUSH had him drugged and in pain, it told him the thing he must not give them, even when the rest of him had lost the faculty for rational thought. He trusted this part of himself. He would obey this part of himself.

''Mr Solo, may I sit?'' asked the voice again with an affable politeness.

''Yes sir, of course'' said Napoleon.

The voice sat in the chair, somehow continuing to exude effortless authority and reassurance. There was something about it that reminded Napoleon of childhood illnesses. The comforting presence of an adult reassuring him that it would be alright. But he wasn't a child anymore, why was the voice here? This was Illya's place now. Illya watched him when he was injured. Illya was his partner; that's what partners did. It's what he did for Illya. Watching Illya when he was injured, when THRUSH had pumped him full of drugs, when he was sick, when he had a fever, when he was cold...when he was cold? Something stirred in his memory. Illya had been cold. Then he remembered, he was no longer holding Illya. He should have been holding Illya. He shut his eyes and breathed tight little breaths, as if against pain.

''Mr Solo, are you alright?'' asked the voice gravely.

Napoleon brought his breathing under control and opened his eyes. ''Yes sir, I'm sorry sir.''

''The medical staff have raised some concerns'' began the voice casually ''they are concerned about your state of mind'' continued the voice, taking a puff on his pipe. There was no concern evident in the voice, it was just a conversation starter, something to get the ball rolling.

''My mind?'' asked Napoleon. There was nothing wrong with his mind. His mind was working fine, clearly he was in need of some medical treatment, if he wasn't he wouldn't be here. The voice wouldn't be here. The presence of the voice ruled this out as THRUSH, it must be U.N.C.L.E. He wasn't sure why he needed medical treatment, he didn't remember being injured, but then he didn't always. A blow on the head, the right or perhaps more accurately the wrong drugs, an explosion, any number of things could leave you without a memory of exactly how you were injured. Illya would remember though. Illya would know how he was injured. Where was Illya? He wanted to ask the voice, but something kept him from speaking up.

''It seems Mr Solo that you have not fully recovered from the trance state in which you were found'' the voice observed conversationally.

''Trance?'' queried Napoleon. Had he been in a trance? THRUSH drugs could have some pretty bizarre side effects; if the truth were acknowledged some of the intended effects could be pretty bizarre. The organisation was not noted for its rigorous adherence to the rational. So that was the concern then. THRUSH had pumped him full of some noxious chemical and the effects were not fully understood. That all seemed pretty straight forward; it didn't explain why the voice had been called to his bedside though. It was hardly standard procedure. It was not unprecedented for the voice to visit, but it was unusual. Why was the voice here this time?

''You were found holding Mr Kuryakin'' said the voice carefully neutral, taking his pipe from his mouth and studying it absently as if nothing of moment were being discussed.

Then Napoleon remembered. He was no longer holding Illya. He should have been holding Illya. ''Mr Kuryakin?'' he repeated. He began to feel the clamminess of his skin and the nausea filling his stomach. Mr Kuryakin. He swallowed hard as it got worse. He had been holding Mr Kuryakin. He shut his eyes and the endless numbing white filled his brain driving all before it.

''Mr Solo? Mr Solo?'' the voice called him back authoritatively.

Napoleon opened his eyes, something in him remembering that he shouldn't ignore this voice. ''Yes sir?'' he responded.

''You were found holding Mr Kuryakin'' repeated the voice. ''The medical assessment is that you had been holding him for some time, possibly for more than a day.''

''He was cold'' said Napoleon, the numbness was still with him. He couldn't feel anything.

''Yes he was'' confirmed the voice ''very cold. The medical assessment is that he would not have survived for as long as he did, if it hadn't been for your efforts.''

''He was very cold'' echoed Napoleon ''but he said goodbye.''

''Yes. I understand something of the sort occurred'' said the voice. ''Regrettable.''

''Regrettable'' repeated Napoleon. ''Where's Illya?''

''I think you should get some rest now Mr Solo'' said the voice and a nurse appeared from nowhere to gift him with sleep.

When he awoke Mr Waverly was talking quietly to a group of doctors not far from his bed. Despite their relative proximity he couldn't make out anything that was being said, but there appeared to be a serious difference of medical opinion, which the Old Man was refereeing. He watched the mummery with a curious disinterest, idly wondering whose prognosis had engendered such a heated, albeit muted debate.

The Old Man called a halt to proceedings, though it was difficult to tell which side felt they had won the exchange. Napoleon smiled wryly, if it was anything like his dealings with the wily old fox the only winner was one Alexander Waverly.

Said wily old fox looked over at him at this point and dismissed the assembled medical opinion with a wave of a file. A respectful retreat was beaten by all. Mr Waverly crossed the short distance to his bedside. ''Hello Mr Solo, it's nice to see you awake again'' he said.

''Thank you sir'' said Napoleon.

''I've been reviewing your file'' he said waggling the file in his hand.

''Oh?'' said Napoleon warily. This was never good news.

''It details your rescue from your last little run in with THRUSH, interesting reading. Would you care to read it for yourself?'' asked Mr Waverly.

Napoleon eyed him wondering if some kind of trap was being set, the Old Man had already told him his mental faculties were under scrutiny.

''Well I'll just leave it here in case you wish to satisfy your curiosity on any point'' said Mr Waverly amiably. He left the file on the seat beside Napoleon's bed and then he left.

Napoleon stared at the file for some time, deciding whether picking it up or leaving it be was more likely to get him a pass in whatever test he was being set. He thought about waiting until Illya turned up, Illya's instincts for this sort of thing were usually good. It was about time the irascible Russian put in an appearance. He leaned out of the bed and picked up the file, turning it over and over while he pondered upon reading it.

In the end the gaps in his memory put forward the most forcible argument and he opened the cover. The first thing he saw was a small and slightly creased black and white head shot of Illya attached by a paper clip. It wasn't great quality and he wondered who had taken it. It looked like the sort of thing that might have followed the Russian from his previous life. He ran his thumb backwards and forwards over the image, remembering holding Illya. That's why the Russian was not at his bedside. He'd held onto Illya trying to keep the warmth in that failing body. Willing it to breathe. To hold on for escape or rescue, not to give up. To use that infuriating stubbornness to save himself, to pull one more impossible victory from the jaws of death.

Napoleon lay back on his pillows. He wasn't sure he wanted to read what this file must contain. He didn't want to see in black and white that which his memory refused to acknowledge. He shut his eyes and drifted. His mind took him back to the cell, holding Illya, talking to Illya, trying to get Illya to stay with him, hearing Illya say goodbye.

'I'm sorry' was that the last word on their partnership? After everything, was that how it ended?

Sleep took him again for an hour or so. Protecting him from the truth. Protecting him from the inevitable result of his failure to stop the heat leaching from his partner's body. Protecting him from having to move on and live as he had lived before the Russian had made himself known.

When he woke the file was still open and waiting. He pulled himself into a position more conducive to reading and took a deep breath. If his partnership was over, then better face it and deal with what came next. The old Napoleon reasserting itself. He detached the picture of Illya and laid it on his covers, next to the file folder and then he picked up the first page of the report. He made a conscious decision not to skim. This was one report he would read carefully and in full.

The first page outlined their original assignment; the affair with the trawler. It detailed the objective and the result. Success. Another THRUSH plot foiled. Mission accomplished. It told him nothing new. This much he remembered with unwavering clarity.

The second page outlined the disintegration of success. The agonising night swim to shore. U.N.C.L.E. losing them. The evaluations regarding the costs and benefits of mounting a rescue. It was sobering to see the value of their lives brought down to so many factors for and so many factors against. A checklist of whether U.N.C.L.E. should recover them or write off the loss. So many ticks in this column and rescue was on its way; so many ticks in that and they were expendable, an acceptable price to pay. Pages like this were why you had a partner. A man for whom your worth was measured in trust and loyalty and nothing else. A man you would hold until the last warmth ebbed from his body.

The third page began the search, it and the subsequent pages outlined the search parameters, checked off the areas searched, eliminated the possibilities one by one, zeroing in on their location.

The final pages debated the various methods by which rescue might be effected, until a plan was formulated, agreed and signed off. He had put his signature to such documents himself. This one was counter signed by Mr Waverly.

An addendum at the back reported on the actual rescue itself. They'd sent in a tactical assault team. Picked agents who had acquitted themselves professionally. Both he and Illya had been recovered. Medical support had been on hand. The medics had taken things from there. The rest of the report was a debrief of the involved agents and evaluations and recommendations for their personnel files. Napoleon had written reports of his own saying similar things.

Behind the pages of the report, tagged to the file folder was an envelope marked 'medical in confidence'. It was sealed. Napoleon detached it. He turned it over in his hands for a couple of rotations and then tapped the edge of the envelope against his teeth while he wrestled with his convictions. But Alexander Waverly was not given to making mistakes and if this was in the file Alexander Waverly would expect that it would be read.

He broke the seal and shook out two further envelopes, one had his name on it; the other had Illya's. He picked up Illya's and looked at it. Then he put it down next to Illya's photograph and opened his own.

It had one sheet of paper in it. The report filled one side, outlining how he had been found, unresponsive and withdrawn, still holding Illya. Lost in a world to which no one else had access. It reported that they had tried to prise Illya from his grasp, but that he had refused to relinquish the body of his partner. In the end the medics had administered a muscle relaxant in order to take Illya from him.

He had retreated further into isolation and had been totally unresponsive for eleven days. Eleven days had passed and he had not known them. The report concluded that it was possible that he might never recover sufficiently to be passed fit again. That he might never fully emerge into a reality too painful to engage with, that he might retreat into a twilight world of his own devising where only acceptable truths existed.

Napoleon smiled in understanding. Alexander Waverly, the old fox, knew that if anything was likely to propel one Napoleon Solo into engaging with a world of whole and unpalatable truths, it was reading that he might be incapable of doing so. And if that was the case then he was right; this file was a test. For there was a whole and unpalatable truth in Illya's envelope.

He reached for Illya's report, lying beside his photograph. He could do this; but he could not stop his hand from trembling or his stomach from knotting while he did it.

Illya's envelope also had one sheet of paper in it, but it contained only one paragraph of writing. Napoleon began to read. It gave a couple of sentences reprising the fight to get Illya's body from him. The next couple confirmed Illya's condition as critical and the last his transfer to the critical care facilities and cross referenced the report with U.N.C.L.E. medical for a full update.

Napoleon read the last few sentences again. And again. In order to be certain he understood the meaning contained in them. Then, carefully and deliberately, he packed the medical reports back in their envelopes and tagged the envelope back into the file folder. He replaced the pages he had read and refastened Illya's tatty old 'photo and then he got up, taking the file with him.

He marched with an unstoppable determination through the corridors leading to critical, sailing past the duty nurse, ignoring the protestations of the doctors both for his own health and that of their patient. He planted himself in the chair next to the only occupied bed and addressed himself to the mop of blonde hair occupying it.

''This report says you are still alive. If you do anything to contradict this I will make sure you are buried in the resulting paperwork'' he threatened ''however if you can manage to keep breathing I am willing to spring for Cocoa, vodka and a nice warm fire in the grate.''

There was a long pause and then an almost imperceptible whisper retorted ''I still intend to recheck the existing regulations with regard to shooting one's partner.''

''You get better and I will help you look them up'' said Napoleon.

''Deal'' said the whisper.

END


End file.
